The Time of the Ancient Mariner
by Loki's Symphony
Summary: With the fall of Gondolin, Elvish power in Beleriand is almost extinct. Morgoth controls the North, and it's only a matter of time until the Mouths of Sirion are decimated by his hordes. But into this hopeless situation falls a madman in a box...
1. Prologue

**Dear all,**

**I'm guessing most of the people reading this also read The Music of the Ainur. For the benefit of those - I'm taking a short break from that to plan my next assault. While that happens, please enjoy this little thing I'm throwing together.**

**- Philip**

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><p><span><strong>The Time of the Ancient Mariner<strong>

**Prologue**

"You won't make it," Clara said.

"A fortnight? Please," the Doctor scoffed, wedging the handset under his cheek as he patted his pockets down. "A sneeze to a Time Lord. I've lost fortnights on accident before – decades, in fact. And, on at least one occasion, a yesterday," he said, pulling his sonic screwdriver from his pocket and running it along the TARDIS console.

"No," Clara retorted, "No, this is you, so I guarantee that the moment I hang up some kind of…spacey-wacey hyper-crisis is going to fall into your lap and I'll be getting frantic calls between piña coladas."

"Hyper-crisis," the Doctor muttered dismissively. "You do have an imagination, you know; 99% of the time, the universe just gets on with getting on, to listen to you you'd think it was an action movie."

"Then how comes," Clara asked, "it always seems to be so when I'm with you?"

"You only see the highlights," the Doctor mumbled in response as he flicked impatiently between sonic settings. "The greatest hits. You're good to have around in a pinch - you seem to have a way of inspiring good ideas; you're the brick wall for the echo."

"Brick wall," Clara deadpanned. "Charming. I suppose it's better than-"

"I _told _you," the Doctor interjected, lowering his voice, "I didn't realise that's what it meant."

"Neither did the Mayoress," Clara replied. "The children were more than happy to _explain _it to her, though. In detail."

"Well, I think that's more than enough goodbyeing," The Doctor announced loudly before Clara could finish speaking. "I don't want to keep you and P.E. waiting."

"Maths teacher," Clara repeatedly, boredly, for the ninth time that month.

"Why a P.E. teacher would be interested in roads in the first place, I've no idea," the Doctor continued unheeding, wrapping the handset's cord around his chest as he turned this way and that, tending to the TARDIS' circuits. "Far too linear and that. Not violent enough, either, they just…go," he mumbled, almost to himself.

Clara paused. "No, _Rhodes!_" she replied. "The island, in Greece!"

"Oh!" the Doctor replied, spinning to free himself from the tangled cord. "Did I ever tell you of the time I ran into an Auton there? Massive, he was – no idea how – but he'd managed to pass himself off as a-"

A bustle of voices and activity down the line cut the Doctor short, before Clara came back. "Taxi's here," she said in the secretive voice she used when Danny was around. "See you soon."

"Enjoy your boring planet," the Doctor replied.

"Two days," Clara whispered. "I'm calling it. You'll last two days, spaceman."

"A lot can happen in two days!" The Doctor called down the phone, frowning as the line suddenly went dead. "I asked her," he said to the phone, "I said, _why holiday on your own planet when you can see the crystal waterfalls of Ferula?_ But no, apparently P.E. 'wouldn't like that'! Humans," he sighed as he stretched to replace the handset.

Without warning, the TARDIS lurched violently and sent him sprawling across the console, digging his heels into the grille to keep him from falling any further. Alarms and sirens blared, and the soft lighting became harsh and red.

"What? What is it now?" he called out as he righted himself, swinging a screen towards him as he wrapped his other arm around a rail. His bushy eyebrows rose dramatically as he saw his place in time tearing backwards at an alarming rate. "Eh? What do you think _you're _playing at?" he asked the screen angrily, flicking and poking it like a tired beast of burden. The numbers, however, told no lie; they were tumbling down the vortex, screaming into the primordial past.

"No, no, no!" the Doctor cried out as he furiously jabbed at buttons, trying to get the TARDIS back under control. "I've told you, you can't be flying off on your own like this, it's very bad for my trust issues!" The numbers on the screen flew further and further backwards, while the Doctor ran unsteadily around the console, pulling out every stop he could find. "Ah, Daleks," he muttered, giving up on trying to arrest the TARDIS' flight and instead crawling beneath the console and bracing himself for the inevitable.

Touchdown, however, was surprisingly gentle, and the Doctor – after a quick check to make sure he had the right number of fingers – slid out of his hiding place, dusting himself down. "Are you quite finished?" he said grumpily.

Despite his sarcasm, the silence unnerved him deeply. The usual "resting" thrum of the TARDIS was gone, leaving behind an eerie stillness broken only by the clunk and thunk of the cooling systems.

"Oh, come on," the Doctor chastised his vessel, pumping a lever energetically, "you can't be that tired! You've only gone-" he choked as he swung the screen towards him. "-seven billion years?!" He blurted, whizzing the sonic across the screen. The numbers remained unchanged. His face set like plaster, hard and serious. "That's the when," he said to himself, pressing buttons, "but _where_ are we?"

NO RECORD, the screen flashed.

"Oh, now you're just being unfair!" The Doctor cried out to the heavens. He eyed the door suspiciously; with no sensors online, there was no way to know if the outside world was dangerous or not.

"Seven billion years ago," he muttered as he inched closer to the door. "Early phase of life in the universe. Lots of habitable worlds, _young_ worlds, full of energy and oxygen, and…leeches the size of mountains," he trailed off. He glanced back to the TARDIS console, its central dome rising and falling gently, like the breathing of a sleeper. It steeled his resolve. "If you've brought me somewhere you can't get back from," he addressed his ship, straightening his cuffs, "you must have had a good reason." He walked to the door and gripped the handle, breathing deeply before pushing it open to stride out into a wall of arrows.

A dozen tall, slender figures in golden helmets and finely-pattered armour which had once been gold, but now was battered and tarnished with blood, mud and filth, stood in a semi-circle around the door with tall bows nocked and aimed at him. Their eyes, bright and starry, stared through him as though he was already dead – or, possibly, they were.

"Oh…hello," he said. One, sharp-faced and unarmed, stepped forward and addressed him. Definitely an officer, the Doctor thought.

"_Man esselya ná?" _He said. The Doctor's eye twitched in surprise.

"I…what?" he spluttered. "What language is that?"

"_Man cárat_?" The tall, angry-looking officer asked, more forcefully than before. The sound of tightening bowstrings was deafening over the silence. The Doctor's brows furrowed before he broke into a wide smile.

"'Scuse me," he whispered before turning back into the TARDIS. "Oi!" He called out. "Sort it out!" He turned back to find the bowmen regarding him with suspicious and intimidated looks. "Sorry about that," he said, leaning casually on the lintel. "Translation circuits must be offline. Happens, sometimes, after a big journey – they'll be back any second now."

"_Man cárnet?_" the officer asked, his brow knotted in confusion, pointing back into the TARDIS.

"Oh, that?" The Doctor replied, pointing back himself. The officer nodded. "That's the TARDIS. It's my ship. It brought me here, though I don't know how…she does that," he trailed off as he saw his adversary's face darkening with impatience.

"_Man _name _ná?_"

The Doctor's eyebrows rose. "Oh…oh, now we're getting somewhere!" The gentleman's stern expression melted into surprise as he heard a word he recognised. "Yes! Yes, you understand me now, don't you? Oh, you beauty!" He called back into the TARDIS as the bowmen looked between each other, unnerved.

"_Man e_s going on?" one of them muttered to another. "_Má_ did he start talking _Eldarin?_"

"_Eldarin_, eh?" The Doctor said, walking slowly towards the officer with the points of the arrows following his movement perfectly. "Can't say I've heard of that. But that's good, that's good; I do love a challenge," he said, his eyes drifting to where the officer's hand rested tightly on the hilt of his sword. "Who are you?"

The officer's face was still yet seething. The Doctor's gaze was held tight by bright blue eyes that seemed almost as old as his own. "I am Galdor of Gondolin," he said, his grip on his sword loosening imperceptibly. "And you?"

"Me?" The Doctor replied. "I'm the Doctor."


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

"Doctor?" Galdor repeated, exaggerating the consonants in his mouth. The Doctor raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement. Some quirk of the TARDIS' translation circuits ensured its pilots name defied translation and remained a universal constant. "Not a name I know in the tongues of Eldar, Sindar, or Edain."

"I doubt you would," the Doctor grinned. "It's a world all its own."

"How, then, can I be sure you're not an agent of Morgoth?" Galdor challenged him, stepping forward to go almost nose-to-nose with the strange old man.

"Never heard of him," the Doctor retorted. "Does that help?" The bowmen laughed mirthlessly and the Doctor cast a wary eye across their faces. They all had the same hungry, defeated, dangerous look in their eyes.

"As lies go," Galdor said with a tired smile, "that's one of the more creative I've heard." The horseshoe of archers tightened around the Doctor, each bowman taking a step forward in unison. The barbs of their arrows glistened in the weak winter sunlight, filtered down through the canopies of tall pine trees.

"D'you treat all your visitors like this, I wonder?" The Doctor grumbled, his brow knotted in frustration.

"Only those who lie to me," Galdor replied, his voice becoming hard and stern. "Give me your name, or my archers will open fire!"

"I just have!" The Doctor shouted back, gesticulating furiously. "Saints preserve us, why did you drop me in amongst these…loonies?" he shouted at the TARDIS, smacking the door.

"What are you, then?" Galdor demanded. "You're no Elf – not even one of the Moriquendi would look so…haggard," he spat, eliciting a look of danger from his captive. "You seem a Man, yet you appear and disappear into this…_thing_," he said, regarding the TARDIS suspiciously. "So I ask again – what are you? Some new form of Balrog sent by Morgoth to destroy Arvernien by stealth and false friendship? Because know that I will order you killed to preserve what is left of this world!"

The creak and strain of bowstrings filled the air, punctuated only by the cries of birds and rustle of leaves on the wind. The Doctor sighed. "I'm not from this world," he said. "I came from…out there," he explained, pointing upward. "I go places, and I help. Or at least, I try to. That's what I do," he mumbled, looking down at the ground. "But if you're going to shoot me, just go ahead and show an old man his life's been some cosmic mistake."

The Doctor looked up after a moment of silence to see the bowmen with their bows relaxed and barbs pointed downwards, staring at the Doctor in wonder. Even Galdor seemed star-struck. "Could you be…are you…were you sent from the Timeless Halls?"

The Doctor paused, and gave a shrug. "If you like," he replied, not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. The company of archers immediately took a knee, Galdor ahead of them, and bowed their heads in supplication.

"O, spirit of Eru," Galdor whispered, his voice almost a sob, "how we have prayed for deliverance from the Black Foe! Show us, My Lord," he said, raising his head to look the Doctor in the eye, "show us how we might beat back this abomination!"

"Oh, for-get up!" the Doctor huffed, grabbing Galdor by the shoulders and hauling him to his feet. "And the rest of you, come on! That armour's dirty enough." One by one the bowmen staggered to their feet, nonplussed.

"You have come just in time, My Lord," Galdor continued.

"Doctor," the Doctor interrupted him. "For someone who was so keen for my name a while ago, you seem awfully shy of using it."

"Doctor," Galdor repeated, bowing his head slightly. "The situation could not be worse. Morgoth's forces amass at our northern border-"

"Yes, yes, yes" the Doctor hurried him along, striding past him and breaking through the rank of archers, who split with autonomic precision to allow him passage. "All is lost, enemy at the gates, all the usual stuff. My only question is…is there anywhere where you can tell me all of this _very _interesting story which isn't in the middle of a freezing forest?" The Doctor asked, holding hands under his arms. Galdor nodded.

"To the Havens," he ordered his men, who immediately formed a cohort and marched double-time towards the forest's edge. "I must confess, Doctor," Galdor said to his guest confidentially as he led him to the front of the company, "I did not expect the affairs of Middle-Earth to be so unknown in the Timeless Halls."

"Oh, it's nothing personal," the Doctor replied, "they're just…very busy, those Halls. You know?" Galdor, though clearly alarmed, nodded politely.

The short journey to the Havens of Sirion passed in silence, but for the stomp of regimented footsteps and the whirr and whistle of the Doctor's sonic screwdriver, occasionally taking readings of their surroundings. Something in the air troubled him; a hint of forces at play which far outstripped the knights-in-armour look of his hosts. After less than an hour the city reared into view – a city, albeit, in name only. A small fishing and trading port which had obviously been forced to expand faster than it could manage, the solid marble at its heart had quickly been enveloped by buildings of wood and thatch, and further out still ramshackle hovels nailed together from whatever materials that could be found. The Doctor's hearts ached as he recognised exactly what these "Havens" were – a refugee camp.

From the moment they passed through the hastily-constructed gates, bruised, broken people mobbed the soldiers, seeking alms or just begging for news. "Please," a mud-splattered woman croaked as she grabbed a bowman's arm, "what news from Dorthonion? Did any make it out alive? Any? Please!" The soldiers pressed on, unheeding of the cries or gropes of the desperate citizens until they reached the less salubrious heart of the city, with streets of grey stone and buildings of white, though decaying, marble. The Doctor was ushered into the grandest of these buildings, his name heralded loudly by Galdor to the amazement of all within. It was a huge throne room, lined by courtiers of what seemed like several different species; some tall and ethereal, one or two very short and heavily-bearded, and most seeming essentially human. At its head, a young man with a serious face sat tiredly in a throne upon a small dais, watching the procession with only passing interest.

"Lord Eärendil!" Galdor called out as they reached the throne. "Eru has sent us salvation! One of His emissaries, from the Timeless Halls, came to us in the forests of Nimbrethil!" The entire court gasped as one, an intake of breath so huge the Doctor could have sworn he felt faint.

"He's a bit…small, isn't he?" One of the short, bearded figures by the throne murmured. The Doctor's eyebrows almost flew off his face in surprise.

"Well, look who's talking, Grumpy!" He shot back, to a mixture of shock and laughter.

"I assure you," Galdor said, stepping forward, "with my own eyes I saw him appear, as out of thin air, in the forest."

"And you led him here?" A dour-faced man, stepping almost from darkness behind the throne, addressed the Elf. "How do we know he isn't one of Morgoth's minions?" A low murmur of assent passed around the room.

"Forgive me, Lord Bregor, but I believe a minion of the Enemy, sent to undo us, would seem…" he paused, glancing briefly to the Doctor, "…more attractive."

"Oh, it's just Charm City, this place, isn't it?" The Doctor muttered. "No wonder you don't have any friends."

"Forgive me, my Lord," Galdor replied, bowing lowly.

"I said, stop that!" The Doctor snapped. "And _that!_" He added, gesturing Galdor to stand straight.

"And you say _this_ is an emissary of Eru Iluvátar?" Bregor drawled, stepping slowly down the dais. "Where is the beauty and grace of Melian, whose power for so long protected Doriath from the Enemy? If he were sent by the will of Eru himself, would he not send his fairest and mightiest servant?"

"In my experience, fair and mighty," the Doctor interjected, "_very_ rarely go together."

"I do not recall you being given permission to speak, stranger," Bregor said slowly, looking over the Doctor with a keen, scrutinising eye the colour and hardness of flint. He was not quite yet of advanced years, but the lines on his face and balding pate spoke of years of hardship. "You speak in riddles like an Elf, yet you dress and act like one of the barbarians from across the Blue Mountains. You are no servant of the Secret Fire," he spat, turning his back on the doctor and crossing to the side of the throne, kneeling slowly. "My Lord, surely you agree that this…_stranger _is not from the Timeless Halls?"

Silence fell anew while Eärendil lifted his head, slowly and deliberately. He regarded the Doctor with glazed, uninterested eyes. "If Eru should care enough of our troubles to send one of His emissaries," he said, "why has He not come Himself to save us?" A shocked murmur went around the court at this blasphemy while Bregor nodded enthusiastically, regarding the Doctor with a poisonous look.

"You know what?" the Doctor called out, addressing the crowd. "He's right. You're right to suspect me. I don't know what's going on here," he announced to the court. "I don't know who you are, or who this Morgoth chap is," he continued, eliciting another gasp and looks to the heavens from the courtiers. "But I do know trouble when I see it. And you're in trouble, aren't you? Streets full of scared, _scared _people, at their wits' end; a city of slums fit to burst with all those fleeing the darkness. I've seen it before," he said, ascending the dais to look eye-to-eye with the young man on the throne amid a flurry of hands reaching uncertainly for weapons. "I want to help. Will you let me?"

Eärendil met the Doctor's gaze. His bright blue eyes seemed empty, lacking some vital spark that gives breath to life. "You can't help," he murmured, standing up slowly. "No-one can," he barked as he walked back into his chambers, waving a hand to dismiss his courtiers. The Doctor turned this way and that on the dais as people poured out of the room, leaving him standing alone by the throne.

"Well, that went well!" The Doctor shouted. "You'd think people would be more grateful for help from a madman who fell out of the sky!" The courtiers ignored him, averting their eyes as armed guards approached from the walls to surround him.

"Guards," Bregor said with a satisfied drawl, "arrest this man." Rough hands clasped the Doctor's arms and held them tight as he struggled vainly against their strength.

"My Lord Bregor!" Galdor protested. "Servant of Eru or not, this is hardly the way to treat a guest!"

"The Lord of the Havens commands it!" Bregor shouted back. "Do not question my authority, Captain Galdor, unless you want to go with him!" Galdor bit his tongue and stood to attention, seething silently. "Take him to the dungeon," Bregor muttered dismissively, before disappearing into the Lord's chambers.

"My offer still stands!" The Doctor cried out after him as the guards marched him away and down a dark, twisting set of stone steps. "You need help, and I can give it to you! I know what it is you're facing! Well…I think I know! Okay, it's more of a general idea, but coming from me, that's a _very _safe bet!"

"I think that's more than enough out of you," a gruff voice amongst the guards murmured, and the last thing the Doctor remembered was a sharp pain in the back of his head and a filthy, muck-streaked stone floor, framed by iron bars.


	3. Chapter 2

**This is easily the most instantly popular story I've ever written. Thank you all! - Philip**

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><p>The Doctor opened his eyes into smoky darkness, shot through with moonbeams. The bitter night's chill gathered at his throat, whistling in through the high, barred window of his cell as he rolled painfully onto his side and gathered himself.<p>

"When in doubt," he grumbled, "brain the newcomer and sling him in a cell. Feudalism, it's always so…passé."

"Thank the Gods," a familiar voice at his side said. "I had worried you might not recover, and they would not let me tend to you." Through clearing vision, the Doctor made out Galdor's form, kneeling on the other side of the bars.

"Oh, don't worry," the Doctor groaned as he hauled himself up into a sitting position, wincing as the cold stones chilled him even through his jacket. "I think I've an immunity to being hit over the head by now. I don't suppose you've the keys, have you?"

Galdor shook his head sadly. "The Night Commander alone holds those. Surely, though, no cell can hold the likes of you?"

The Doctor rolled his eyes. "If I had a penny," he mumbled.

Galdor sighed, resting his forehead against the cool iron bars. The Elf Captain, at their first meeting so threatening and imperious, had seemed only more vulnerable, more desperate, throughout their short acquaintance. "Is there," he asked, "nothing I can do?"

"Well," the Doctor said, pulling one leg up beneath his chin, "you can tell me what's going on here, for a start. I'd like to at least know _why_ your friend up there saw fit to imprison me."

Galdor let out a short laugh of surprise. "Do you truly not know? How can it be that any of Eru's servants are unaware of our plight?"

"I shouldn't really be telling you this," the Doctor replied, "but you're not the only coconut-shy at the fairground." Galdor wore a blank look of confusion. "The universe is big," the Doctor explained, "far, far bigger than you can imagine. There are things in it that'd make your hair curl. But enough of that," he trailed off, clocking the Elf's growing look of concern. "Just…tell me who this Morgoth type is. Let me know why, in this world, an honourable man would have no qualms killing someone he just met," he asked, his steely eye meeting Galdor's gaze and making the Elf blanch with shame.

"Morgoth is…evil," Galdor replied flatly. "Incarnate. He exists only to mar and destroy Eru's creation; to maim and kill his Children, until all comes to smoking ruin beneath the iron feet of his legions."

"Oh, I've heard it before," the Doctor replied, rubbing his aching head. "_The Enemy is evil, we're the good guys, honest guv_."

"He _is _evil!" Galdor replied, gripping a bar with his hand. "For five hundred years he has made every effort to destroy the race of the Eldar; he captures and tortures our kind, turning them into his foul demons, which he unleashes upon the cities of Beleriand. His evil nature has even turned Elf against Elf – for the right to possess the Jewels which he wears in his crown, the sons of their maker, Fëanor, have sworn an oath to destroy whosoever would hold one and keep it from them – even if they be their own kin," he spat.

"Must be special, these Jewels," the Doctor replied, cocking an eyebrow.

"More special than any of the stars in the firmament above," Galdor said wistfully. "They are called the Silmarilli among my kind; the most wondrous, lustrous gems that were ever fashioned by the hands of any on Arda. Three, there were; Morgoth stole them from Fëanor and slew his father – our first King, Finwë – and ever since he has been bent on the destruction of the Elves. For four hundred years we held him in siege at his fortress in Angband, but…" Galdor's mouth shut into a tight line. "We are failing," he hissed, his voice a desperate, quiet cry of pain. "For over a century he has pushed us further and further south, razing and destroying every country in his path; Dorthonion, Gondolin, Doriath…all fallen to his hordes. Now, we are all that is left…and our end will come sooner rather than later."

"So why," the Doctor asked, "is your boss up there so unwilling to accept whatever help he can get?"

Galdor sighed heavily. "One of the three was wrested from Morgoth's grasp eighty years ago and, for a time, it resided here, in the keeping of the Lord's wife, Elwing. Two years past, two of the sons of Fëanor – Maedhros and Maglor – assaulted the Havens with a large host. Elwing cast herself into the sea with the Jewel rather than allow the sons of Fëanor their prize, and in their wrath they killed thousands…including my brother," he muttered, his mind temporarily cast back to the carnage. "He gave his life protecting Lord Eärendil's young sons, Elros and Elrond…such fair, sweet children," he whispered. "They were taken hostage, and the Lord has not seen them since. It was that day he lost the will to continue."

"And I'm guessing that's the day Lord Brego started talking on his behalf?" The Doctor asked. Galdor nodded solemnly. "No…more, I need more. Who is Morgoth? _What _is Morgoth? And _don't _say he's evil again – don't give me the legend, give me the man."

Galdor paused before breaking into a desperate, almost giddy laugh. "Man? You think him a mere man? Morgoth is of the Valar," he explained, a joyless smile fixed to his face. His eyebrows rose almost off his face as the Doctor shrugged. "They are the first and greatest of Eru's children. He and his siblings came into this world when it was new and it was they who greeted the Elves when we awoke; they are mighty beyond measure, wise beyond comprehension, and Morgoth is the most powerful of them all. He stands twenty feet from toe to crown, his voice has toppled mountains and his-"

"Oh, here we go," the Doctor groaned , "the exaggeration. Very common in primitive societies, to ascribe god-like attributes to their enemies – no offense."

"I do not exaggerate!" Galdor replied, standing and looming threateningly over the Doctor, his temper beginning to fray. "I have seen him with my own eyes, and it is a monstrous sight to behold! When the High King of the Noldor, Fingolfin, challenged him to single combat outside the gates of his fortress, I watched on as our greatest warrior fell to his mace; as the Dark Lord crushed the life out of him with his foot, as easily as a child would an insect. Almost one hundred years have passed since that day, and I never-"

"Hold on," the Doctor interrupted him, "what?"

"I said, I never-"

"No, no, not that, before, when you were interesting!" The Doctor said, leaping to his feet. "A hundred years, you say?"

Galdor looked at him, nonplussed. "Almost," he replied. "Ninety-five years next month."

The Doctor stared at Galdor, deep and scrutinising. "No," he replied with a wide, toothy grin. "Not possible. There's no way you're a day over forty."

Galdor sighed tersely, feeling his patience wearing thin. Were he not convinced the strange old man was an emissary of Eru, he'd have left him here to rot by now. "I am six hundred and twenty-five years old," he replied.

"No chance," the Doctor replied. "Only one humanoid species in the universe has a lifespan that extreme, and you're talking to one."

Galdor's mouth opened and closed, overwhelmed by the incomprehensible words that left the old man's lips, before deciding to ignore them altogether. "I am not even the oldest Elf in the Havens," he replied, eyeing the Doctor suspiciously, his faith in him beginning to strain for the first time. "Círdan the Shipwright lives just across the water, on the Isle of Balar; he is over ten thousand years old. Some even believe he was one of the first of our kind."

The Doctor stepped towards the bars, eyeing Galdor up. "Impossible," he breathed, reaching into his jacket pocket and whipping out the Sonic Screwdriver, making the Elf jump backwards as he gave him a quick scan. "Or…perhaps…" he muttered as he read the readings.

"What was that?" Galdor demanded.

"Sonic screwdriver," the Doctor replied as he fiddled with the settings, making the sonic screech and whistle. "My magic wand, if you like. Only there's nothing magic at all about this place – I knew it!" he called out, chasing an invisible signal around the cell. "Technology. It's everywhere. All over this place, all over this _planet _ - invisible, subtle, but everywhere. Even you," he said, pointing to the Elf with the screwdriver. "I don't know exactly how, but someone has woven some kind of highly advanced technology into the very fabric of this world; technology that brings the impossible to life."

Galdor stood stunned. "I don't understand what any of that means," he said.

"Ah, well, you're only human. Or not," the Doctor muttered as he pointed the sonic at the lock on the door, which popped and opened noisily. He stepped outside and clapped Galdor on the shoulder. "I think we should go and have another chat with this Lord Eärendil, now he doesn't have your man Brego hovering over his shoulder…or does he, do you know?" The Doctor asked warily.

"How…how did you-" Galdor spluttered.

"Magic wand," the Doctor replied, waving the sonic as he disappeared up the stairs, Galdor chasing after him.

"But you asked me if I had the keys!"

"I knew you didn't," the Doctor whispered as they emerged into the corridor, scanning left and right for guards. "If you did, you wouldn't have been kneeling by the bars like a lemon."

"What's a-no," Galdor interrupted himself. "Why, then, did you sit in captivity when you could have freed yourself at any time?" The Doctor caught the Elf's gaze.

"Because I needed to hear the facts from your lips," he replied. "I needed to believe you. And I do," he went on, trotting out into the corridor and beckoning Galdor to follow him. "To an extent, anyway. I don't doubt this Morgoth is hardly going to win Man of the Year any time soon, but a god?" The Doctor shook his head. "The universe is never that simple."

"What do you mean?" Galdor hissed as they ducked into a culvert together, the Doctor's nose pressed almost flush against the tall Elf's collarbone.

"I mean," the Doctor replied in a nasal whisper, "there's something else going on here. This is not the work of magic, but machines – very, very old machines, but like nothing I've seen in many, many years."

"I don't understand," Galdor mumbled, shaking his head in frustration.

"That's alright, you don't have to," the Doctor replied. "Just get me out of here and back to where you found me."

"Follow me," Galdor said, leading the way with certainty. For some minutes they tip-toed around winding stone corridors before leaving the fortress through a side door, at which point the Doctor felt Galdor wrap something tightly around his neck.

"What do you think you're doing, you treacherous-oh," he babbled before noticing Galdor had slung his cloak about the Doctor's shoulders, fastening it with a brooch at his throat.

"The Havens are full of spies," Galdor whispered as he pulled the hood up over the Doctor's head, obscuring his face. "Nearly all of them Brego's." He gestured the Doctor to follow him and the two made quick, silent progress through the old town, its marble shining a brilliant blue beneath the full moon. It was when they got into the hastily-constructed shanties around its edges, however, that their flight became more difficult. Entire streets were impassable mud wallows, or so built-up with encroaching shelters that they had become dead-ends overnight.

"How many people live here?" The Doctor asked quietly as they took the long way around a collapsed building.

"We cannot be certain. Tens of thousands," Galdor replied. "Perhaps even a hundred. Tenfold what the city was built to bear. All of Beleriand has poured through our gates over the last ten years; there is nowhere else," he said sadly. "In such conditions, disease is everywhere. The Edain – the men-folk – they succumb to sickness at a rate so overwhelming we barely have time or space to bury them."

"You don't, though?" The Doctor asked after a few moments of despondent silence. "Your people?"

"The Eldar are tied to the fate of the world," Galdor said. "We do not sicken, and by the time we reach one hundred years we are as grown as we shall ever be. Some of our very oldest, however, appear as the elderly of the Edain do; however, these are rare indeed."

"Rare indeed," the Doctor replied under his breath. The more he learned about this strange race and their world, the more confusing and impossible it all seemed. Tens of thousands of years old? A war waged by living gods? It seemed pure fantasy. Eventually the two reached the edge of the conurbations, an unmanned gate-house consisting of tree branches crudely lashed together to form a makeshift bar. As the Doctor untied horses from nearby hitching rail, Galdor hefted the heavy bar out of the way to clear their path.

"The alarm has not been raised," Galdor whispered as they mounted their steeds. "You have not yet been missed."

As if on cue, a mighty horn blasted out from the city behind them, echoing down the ramshackle streets of the sprawl. Shouts echoed towards them as the city guard formed and fanned out. "Well, how's that for timing," the Doctor said with a mad grin. "Hi-ho, Silver!" His horse reared and sped off into the night, followed closely by Galdor, hooves thumping and thudding on damp ground as the city disappeared behind them.


End file.
